Cages
by ALP Unstable
Summary: Cages come in many forms, and Elizabeth breaks a few in order to soothe her trauma and get what she wants. Takes place shortly after The Operating Theater; Bookerbeth; NSFW; all that jazz.


A/N: This technically follows "His Hands," but reading that piece is not necessary. The only thing you need to know, coming into this, is that Booker and Elizabeth have kissed.

* * *

><p>She hadn't counted on the depth of her exhaustion, or of his.<p>

When he'd gotten her out of the machine, they'd both been burning adrenaline. It had seemed a simple thing to race after Comstock and do away with him, but it hadn't been long before the high had worn off and they'd been running on fumes. She hadn't wanted to stop; they were so close, and she was so _angry_. But their bodies and minds were both growing sluggish.

"We're liable to get ourselves killed if we don't get some rest," he'd said. She'd had to admit that he was right.

Now, they stood in the bedroom of a small guest apartment tucked away in the rear of the mansion. It was well-furnished, but little-used and long-neglected; everything was coated in a thin layer of dust. God willing, it would continue to be overlooked. Booker had paused at the main door to set a Vigor-fueled trap, and Elizabeth had followed him as he'd poked his way through the sitting room and bedroom and washroom, examining each space with a detective's eye, making sure they were really alone.

"Looks clear," he finally said. "You take the bed; I'll take the couch."

It made sense. Should any guards or Vox try to enter, he'd be right there, ready to spring up and meet those who avoided the trap. And beyond that, it was the polite, appropriate thing to do. It would also take him further away from her than she currently wanted. "Don't be silly," she said. "There's plenty of room here for the both of us."

He shifted uneasily. "That...isn't strictly proper."

She laughed bitterly. Proper? The reality of what she'd been through boiled in her blood, the memory of their kiss writhed in her gut, and the mere sight of him drove her mad. What did she care, now, what was proper? And what did he, rogue that he was? "Propriety is just another cage." She wrapped her arms around herself. The motion tugged at the bruises that lined her sides and back. "And I don't want to live in it any more than I want to live in that tower."

He took a step toward her. "What _do_ you want?" His tone was low, rough, suggestive.

She wanted to taste his mouth. She wanted to trace his collarbone with her tongue, the way he'd done to her. She wanted his hands to be on her body and his hips to be locked to hers and his clothes to be gone. "I want to be near you."

Silence. Was he taken aback, or disappointed? After a moment, he sighed and shook his head. "All right, fine."

She turned her back to him and removed her jacket, hiding her smile. She heard the creak of the mattress as he sat down, heard the thump of his boots as they hit the floor. Her stomach turned flips. It was incredible how exciting it was just to think that she'd be lying beside him.

_And then what?_

Her hands shook as she unlaced her shoes. For the past hour, she'd been a mess. Small, insignificant sounds had been making her tense, or feel queasy, or want to cry. Rage had fought for supremacy with suffocating sadness, and when she'd thought of Paris, of _escape,_ her fancies had been soured by images of her months of imprisonment. Rough hands, restraints, shocks, the bolt in her spine; lies and debasements, whispered and shouted after she'd been drained or starved or deprived of sleep and could hardly tell what was real. And that monster, that mockery of a parent, telling her throughout it all that he _loved_ her, that _God_ loved her and had a _plan_ for her.

When she thought of Booker, she was able to push the memories away. Her desire was just shy of overwhelming, but at the moment, it was the only thing that truly felt good.

_And then...hopefully..._

She paused to regard him before turning off the lamp. He was already under the covers, arms folded beneath his head, watching her. He'd stripped off his vest and shirts, leaving just the top half of his short-sleeved union suit; she could see the bulge of his biceps and, through the fabric, make out the outline of the rest of his muscles. _Oh, God._ She bit her lip and slipped into bed.

"Can't sleep long," he said. "I'll wake you when it's time to go."

She wanted to slide over to him, to touch him, to press herself against him. For some reason, she couldn't. God, they'd kissed, and they were sharing a bed, and she was losing her nerve _now_? "And how are you planning on waking yourself?"

He shrugged, and the sheets rustled in time. "Experience." It sounded like hubris, but she said nothing. He closed a hand over her shoulder. "Just get what sleep you can." She wanted to kiss him again. Why didn't she? Why didn't _he_?

He flipped over, turned his back to her. She stared at it for a long moment, trying to muster up the courage to do...something, _anything._ She huffed in frustration and sprawled out on her back. What was wrong with her?

_A lady does not lie with a man not her husband._

She passed her hands over her face and grabbed at her temples. All of that talk of living outside of cages, and here she was, allowing her own mind to box her into one. She had been raised to be controlled. None of the values she'd been taught could be trusted; she knew that, and knew it all the more for having been treated the way she had the past six months. Whether it came from the prophet or from the outside world, she wanted to reject it all. God help her, she wanted Booker.

And, God help her, after the life she'd lived, she was going to do what she wanted.

She rolled onto her side; her corset dug into her flesh, and she cursed having to wear it to bed. Tentatively, she extended her hand, placed it on Booker's back, dragged it down at a slow, deliberate pace. His muscles tensed, and his body arched toward her, and her heart thudded.

"...Elizabeth." His voice was flat, almost chastising. She moved closer to him and propped herself up on her elbow. Her hand drifted up to his side, then fell to his chest. This close, the warmth of his body was palpable, and it made it hard to think.

"Booker," she replied, doing her best to match his tone. He grunted.

"You know, this is why this ain't considered proper." He twisted toward her, placing his right hand on her shoulder blade, trailing the other up her arm. She traced the triangle of bare skin exposed by his suit. His eyes locked onto hers.

"You sure you wanna do this?" he asked.

It was a stupid question. "Yes," she breathed.

"It...changes things."

"I know."

He cupped her cheek, ran the pad of his thumb over her lips, dragged them apart. A wave of desire struck her hard; she shuddered and her eyes rolled back into her head. Then, he pulled her down to him.

She knew a little about kissing, now, enough to suck on his lips and pass her tongue through his mouth. And she was forceful, so much so that his body tensed with surprise. A voice in the back of her mind whispered that her actions and movements were wanton, or at the very least far too forward, but she didn't care. Her skin burned and her core throbbed, and the pleasure of simply being crushed against him drowned out the pain and anger.

She grabbed at his neck, face, and hair, and writhed on top of him. His hands drifted down, cupped her rear, pressed her hard against him, and she moaned into his mouth. Then his lips drifted away, to the crook of her neck, the hollow of her throat; her fingers jumped downward and twisted in the fabric of his suit. Why was he still wearing it? Why was he still wearing _anything?_ She wanted to see him, she wanted to touch him. She slipped a hand down to the buttons at his waist and tugged.

"Hmph." He pulled away, grabbed her thighs, pushed himself up until he was sitting with her in his lap. His hips rocked beneath her, and she panted, and her chest heaved, and her body trembled. He pulled her close and reached around to tug at the stays of her corset. _Oh God, oh God, oh God._ The thought of him undressing her made her blush and squirm.

He was gentle and teasing when he pulled it over her head, taking care along the bust, avoiding her wound, brushing her skin with his fingertips. She managed to unbutton the top half of his suit a moment later, and he freed it from his pants and tossed it off. _Oh, thank God it's a two piece._ She leaned back and drank him in. Firm muscle, a smattering of brown and grey hair, old scars and fresh bruises. She pressed her palm against the center of his chest and splayed her fingers. _His skin._ Soft and rough, warm and cool. Her hand moved to a pec and squeezed, then moved down to his abs, tracing the lines of his muscles, then further down to the hem of his pants. One of his drifted to her breast, drawing circles, starting at the widest point and inching ever inward. When his thumb and forefinger closed over her nipple, she shuddered and whimpered and dug her nails into the flesh of his stomach, making him jump and groan.

She shifted her gaze up to his eyes. He looked at her as if he wanted to swallow her whole, and her heart thudded, and her body flooded with lust, and she darted forward and kissed him again. _You can devour me, Mr. DeWitt - as long as you allow me the same._

Her mouth found its way to his neck. Her tongue struck his collarbone. _Everything that I want. Everything._ His hands played at the high waist of her skirt, and hers began to tug at his belt. _More of him._ Without thinking, she bit into his shoulder, hard. He cried out.

"Oh!" She pulled back. "I'm sorry. I'm...not sure why I did that."

He blinked at her, then chuckled. "It's fine." He grabbed the back of her head, pulled her roughly to him, and _bit her, too._ Well, then. The sensation was wonderful: a mix of pain and pleasure that sent a hot jolt of need to the apex of her legs. She kissed him forcefully and let her body take over, grinding against him, moaning loudly and lewdly and not caring how she sounded.

He flipped her around and onto her back a moment later. She gasped, and he bit her bottom lip, then trailed his mouth down her body, starting at her ear, making his way to her breasts, swirling his tongue around each nipple in turn. Her hands roamed over his back; she palmed the muscles at the base of his spine, then pressed her fingers into his ribs, then grabbed at his shoulder blades. Everything was bright and new and intense - the contours of his body, the feel of his lips and tongue. She could lose herself in it; she could lose herself in the deepening ache in her gut, forget everything but him and this. In this space, even pain was not painful.

His mouth drifted to the waist of her skirt. She fidgeted as he freed it from her hips, tugged it off of her, tossed it aside. Her petticoat and drawers followed not long after. He ran his hands along her stockings, hooked his fingers under the garters. It was at that point that some part of her upbringing slammed into her, and she was struck with a wave of embarrassment.

"May I...leave those on?" she panted. She'd never been naked in front of a man before - at least, not when she was consciously aware of it. A part of her knew it was silly to request a barrier be kept between them, that it was giving into the conditioning. But she wanted to get on with things without having to worry about comfort.

He arched an eyebrow. "Okay."

"Thank you."

He shrugged, shook his head and slid his fingers higher, squeezing where her legs met her torso. When he replaced one of his hands with his lips and tongue, she exhaled sharply and bucked her hips. _God, I..._ He moved his mouth down her inner thigh, then made his way back up the other. At the same time, he used the fingers of one hand to part her lips, running them along the edge, always just missing the center; his other hand massaged her hip and traced her pubic bone. She murmured with each breath, and her stomach tightened with anticipation.

_But what is he...?_

"Booker." Her tone rose at the end of his name, terminating in a high, breathy pitch. "You..."

His tongue dipped between her thighs, and the words died in her throat.

One of the benefits of her ability was that, with it, she'd been able to acquire reading material she wasn't supposed to have. Otherwise, she likely wouldn't have known even the basics of what it meant to take a lover. But there were limits even then, and gaps in her knowledge still, and in nothing she had read had there been anything about _this._

He was running his tongue over the ridge and tiny bundle of nerves that she'd discovered when she was young, and he was alternating strokes, moving between long and broad and short and fast, leaving her gasping. She didn't know what to do with her hands. She tangled her fingers in his hair, then grabbed at his shoulders, reached back to the headboard, clawed at the bed. He tongued her opening, then moved back up and sucked her into his mouth, and she bent her legs and circled her hips and let out a long, low moan. It was unlike anything she had imagined happening between them, and it was wonderful.

His mouth stayed on her until her pleasure raced up a steep crescendo, until her body spasmed and her fists tangled in the sheets. Her legs shook. Her head snapped back. She cried out and squeezed her eyes shut.

When he moved away, she sighed at the loss of warmth and contact, but didn't bother opening her eyes. She was still overwhelmed, still so very high, and she was suffused with a pleasant, languid tingling. _No pain._ She heard the soft thump of his feet striking the floor, the metallic clink of his belt coming undone, the rustle of his pants and smalls sliding down his legs. The popping of springs. She opened her eyes, breathing hard, and found him propped above her, one elbow on either side of her frame.

He smoothed back her hair and kissed her. A tangy musk lingered on his lips and tongue. She realized that she was tasting herself, and something about the notion thrilled her and rekindled the fire in her gut. _More._ Such a desperate feeling, still, even after what he'd done to her. As he ground into her thigh, and her body twitched up to meet him, she came to understand the need, and reached down to push him against her.

Abruptly, he broke away and lifted himself up on his hands, looking down at her. She took the opportunity to let her eyes roam downward, taking in the parts of him she hadn't yet explored. She furrowed her brow, reached between them, hesitated. Should she...? _Should he have kissed you between your legs?_ Her hand coiled, uncoiled, then wrapped around his length. It was strange: hardened flesh, soft skin spread taut. But the way he groaned was anything but. She moved her fingers, then her entire hand, and was pleased by the shortening of his breaths and the bucking of his hips.

He curled a finger under her chin and tilted her head back, capturing her gaze. "Ready?"

Her pulse ratcheted up a notch. "Yes."

He guided her hand away from him. "You tell me if you want me to stop."

"I won't." Why would she?

"Fine, but it's gonna hurt at fir..."

"_Booker._"

With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, he lowered himself onto her. And for all that he entered her with care, it _did_ hurt. She gritted her teeth and clutched his back and tried not to squeal. And when he started to move, lifting up and pushing back into her, she wondered why a woman's body should be built to betray. Why would it beg for this, and then recoil when the moment finally arrived?

But slowly, as time passed, the pain began to recede. It became pain laced with pleasure, and then it became pleasure laced with pain, and then the pain faded so far into the background that it no longer registered. She met one of his thrusts with a thrust of her own, and he paused to look at her, questioning. She responded with a hungry kiss.

His hand slid to her thigh, coming to rest over the garter. He squeezed, then drew up her leg and deepened his strokes; the pain returned, but only briefly. She kissed his ear and neck and moaned into his shoulder. He thrust faster, and harder, always waiting for her before increasing the pace, making sure she was there with him. She was. Oh God, she was, even in the moments when it ceased to feel good. The need for him intensified, enveloped her; she bucked against him with abandon and called out his name. He pressed his forehead to hers and stared into her eyes, and within them she could glimpse the depths of his own desire, and it made her dig her nails into his back and grip him more fiercely. God, why couldn't they get closer? She wanted to be closer. She could feel him along every inch of her body and _it wasn't close enough._

The pleasure didn't build for her, this time, but it did for him; she could see it in his eyes, hear it in the timber of his groans, feel it in the desperation of his strokes. So, she was surprised when he suddenly stopped and pulled completely out.

"...Booker?"

Her eyes widened as he grabbed her hand, placed it around his shaft, and guided it swiftly up and down. He convulsed a moment later, and hot, sticky fluid gushed onto her belly. He then leaned down, kissed her forehead, and left to make his way to the washroom. She lay there, stunned.

_What...?_

She propped herself up on her elbows, looked down. She dragged a finger through the mess he had left, and rifled through what she knew of the act.

_Oh. Right._ He was trying to avoid getting her pregnant.

He returned a moment later, bearing a dusty cloth. "Sorry," he said. "There are..." He ran a hand through his hair. "...things we can buy, so I don't have to do that."

"I think I'd like that." She watched as he cleaned her, nursing dissatisfaction. For it to have been so lovely, and to have then ended that way... When they arrived in Paris, it would be necessary to buy these "things" immediately. If it seemed she couldn't wait that long (and she already had a feeling that she wouldn't be able to), then she'd have to ask him to describe them and try opening a tear.

He tossed the cloth aside and climbed into bed beside her, pulling the covers over them both. For a moment, she felt...strange, uncertain. What should she do now? What _did_ lovers do at this point? She still wanted to touch him, and the heat of his body was still intoxicating, but it was obvious that they were finished, and her thoughts were already drifting in a negative direction. Was this how it was to be - the sadness would leave for a handful of white hot moments, then return when the pleasure began to fade? Would the respite last longer when he could reach his end inside of her, when they could stay joined?

"You all right?"

She turned to see him looking at her, brow creased with concern. He reached out and cupped her cheek, his fingers curling behind her ear and under her jaw, stroking lightly. A surge of affection for him, warm and crushing and sweet, pushed the misery aside. _Who would have thought a man such as he could be so gentle?_ She wrapped her hand around his wrist and slid her thumb along its edge.

"Yes." She moved to kiss him, softly this time. His arm snaked around her back and he rolled over, pulling her onto his chest. Her head settled onto his shoulder; her fingers toyed idly with the hair that peppered his form. His hand spread across her lower back and held her in place. There was something more, now, here in his arms. It was deep and intense, and it voiced an answer to the question she'd asked herself when they'd first kissed: yes, her hunger would grow. It already _was_ growing. No matter how much she had of him, it would never be enough.

Was that really freedom? _Am I trading one cage for another?_

As she drifted off to sleep, she decided that she didn't care.


End file.
